


Touchstone

by xylodemon



Series: deancas codas: season eleven [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel in the Bunker, Episode Tag, Healing, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 19:53:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5061832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylodemon/pseuds/xylodemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're in pain," Cas says finally. He sounds sad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touchstone

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for 11x03
> 
> [Also available on tumblr](http://xylodemon.tumblr.com/post/131784316399/deancas-fic-touchstone-35k-nsfw).

"All right," Dean says, yawning into his third beer. It's nearly empty, but the cool, sweaty glass feels good against his busted jaw. His melted ice pack is making a puddle on the table. "I'm calling it a night."

"Yeah." Sam closes the book he's been reading sets it aside. "Me too."

"Are you," Dean starts, trailing off as he turns toward Cas. He clears his throat. His gut is still in knots from thinking Cas was dead. He'd been so still for that handful of seconds -- he hadn't even been breathing. "You need anything?"

Cas shakes his head and reaches for Sam's laptop. He looks healthy again, his skin clear and his eyes bright. "You two rest. I'll search the Continental's license plate in the state databases."

"Which states?" Sam asks. "It's been weeks. He could be anywhere."

"I'll search every state."

"That's gonna take all night," Dean points out.

"I don't sleep."

"Okay," Dean says, his chair squeaking against the floor as he stands. "Knock yourself out. There's beer in the fridge, and there's a stockpile of bean and cheese burritos in the freezer. Bottom drawer."

"I don't eat, either."

Snorting, Dean shakes his head. "Whatever. Holler if you need anything."

"Night, Cas," Sam says.

Dean shuffles out of the library, passing through the kitchen long enough to toss the ice pack in the sink. He also dumps out the dregs in the coffee pot, wrinkling his nose a little at the sour, half-burnt smell. They've been brewing this organic, fair-trade stuff Sam picked up at a beatnik joint in Kearney, but Dean's lived on muddy diner java so long he can't get used to it. It tastes too clean. He rinses the pot and sets it back on the burner, then heads for his room, hitting the lights on his way out. The bulbs hum for a second before winking out.

Sam ambushes him in the hallway. Dean isn't in the mood -- his split lip is throbbing and the headache behind his eyes is beating like a drum -- but Sam catches his shoulder before he can slip inside his room.

"Hey," he says carefully. Dean waves him off.

"Look, Sammy, we've had a hell of a night." Between Metatron and the Darkness, tomorrow isn't looking up either, but Dean's too tired to think about that right now. "Whatever you gotta say can wait 'til I've had my four hours."

Sam's mouth twitches as he swallows an apology. Instead, he asks, "Why didn't you let Cas heal you?"

"'Cause it's not that bad," Dean says, shrugging. "He ain't here just to give us manicures and patch up all our papercuts."

"Yeah, but you -- you told Cas you had it coming."

Dean turns to face Sam completely, leaning his back against his bedroom door. They're both big men, both have a way of filling up all the available space, but this hallway has never felt so small and cramped. Dean can't breathe. He can still see himself punching Cas' face and driving his angel blade through the cover of that book.

"I did," he says finally. "I ain't exactly been a ray of sunshine this last... I don't know--? Year?"

"Dean, that's not --" Sam stops short, pity clouding his face. "Did you guys have a fight? When you still had the Mark, did you --"

"Fight?" Dean snorts out a noise. "Shit. I almost killed him. I almost --" he heaves out a sigh and rubs his hand over his face. Shame wells up and burns in the back of his throat. "We ain't talking about this."

"Dean, you --"

"Look, I'm going in my room," Dean continues, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, "and I'm gonna get my four hours." At the rate he's been going, it'll be a miracle if he gets even half that. "In the morning, we're gonna start looking for Metadouche."

"He's been in the wind for weeks."

"Well, maybe we'll get lucky for once," Dean snaps, throwing up his hands. "Maybe he ditched Cas' ride somewhere. Maybe it's rotting in an impound lot in some shitstain town. That'll give us a starting point, at least."

"I -- okay. Night, Dean."

"Yeah. Goodnight."

 

+

 

Dean strips down to his t-shirt and boxer-briefs, and he stretches out on his bed, but he doesn't turn off the lights. He doesn't sleep. He can't. An anxious weight is churning in his gut.

He isn't too worried about finding Metatron. The guy is human now, so he needs to eat and sleep and shit. He needs to take showers and put gas in his car, and that kind of stuff always leaves a trail behind. It might take time, but he'll turn up. Eventually, a truck-stop security camera will catch him buying Slim Jims, or a motel clerk will remember a weaselly little dick who smiled too much and laughed at his own crappy jokes.

But the Darkness -- Christ. Dean doesn't even know where to start. Amara could be anywhere in the country. She could be anywhere in the world. And if Dean's right about her needing to "grow up," she could _look_ like anything. She could still be a baby. She could be a toddler. She could be a teenager with blue hair and a nose ring, or a ninety-year-old lady with blue hair and a house full of cats. 

Worse, he doesn't know what she wants. No more rabids have come across their radar so far, but that doesn't mean anything. Zombies with a short shelf-life are a pretty cheap trick for an ancient force of evil. They were probably just a side-effect of the freaky dust cloud escaping, and not something Amara purposely created. They aren't what she came here for.

Shivering, Dean replays their conversation in his head. She'd smelled like myrrh and old blood -- cold and dark, like a demon summoning gone sideways -- and her bullshit about them being bound had grated against his skin like sandpaper. He hadn't been afraid of her -- not really, not like he probably should've been -- but he hadn't wanted to be around her, either. Looking at her had made his teeth itch. Her voice had been all smoke and mirrors, and nothing she'd said gives him any clue about what she plans to do.

He sighs and rubs his pounding temples. His shoulder aches. Exhaustion is prickling behind his eyes, but if he closes them, the only thing he'll see is the inside of that warehouse. He'll see Cas' face twisted with blood and rage. Cas shaking and seizing up and collapsing. Cas sprawled on the dirty concrete, not moving or breathing. Dean had been terrified that Rowena had tricked them somehow, that Cas wouldn't wake up. When Cas finally opened his eyes -- when Cas looked at Dean and recognized him -- everything Dean has kept buried for years crawled up into his throat with teeth and claws. He'd touched Cas' jaw. He'd held Cas' face in both hands. He'd almost kissed him, his fat lip and his brother and Rowena be damned. He'd -- fuck.

He needs a drink -- a real one, not just pisswater beer. He's been trying to slow down on the hard stuff now that the Mark is gone, so his twenty-sixer of Jim Beam is buried in his closet, in a box with his spare boots and the knee brace he refuses to wear and his backup photocopies of his dad's journal. He's still debating if it's worth getting up and angering his sore shoulder and back when someone knocks at the door.

It's Cas; Dean would've heard Sam walking down the hallway. Cas can't zap himself around anymore, but he's still almost silent when me moves. 

"Yeah," Dean calls, just as Cas knocks again. "I'm still up."

"I assumed you would be." The door sighs opened and closed. "You don't sleep enough. Neither does Sam."

"Yeah, well," Dean says, shrugging. The good side of his mouth curls a little. "Occupational hazard."

Cas hesitates at the foot of the bed. Without his coat and suit jacket and tie, he looks relaxed, weirdly soft for a creature that is anything but. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbow and his shirt is unbuttoned at the neck. Dean wants to touch the hollow of his throat. It might even been enough.

"You're in pain," Cas says finally. He sounds sad.

"I'm all right." Dean shifts on the bed, wincing as something twinges at the base of his spine. "I ain't gonna die from a couple of jabs to the face."

"I dislike watching you suffer. You --"

"Just drop it," Dean snaps. He's too tired for this.

Cas studies him for a moment, then sits on the edge of the bed, nudging in to make space against Dean's hip. The bed creaks quietly as he settles. He folds his hands in his lap, but as he turns to face Dean his elbow bumps Dean's thigh.

"You're punishing yourself."

"I guess I am," Dean admits, guilt crowding up into his throat. It's so heavy he can barely breathe through it. "Don't act like you --"

"We're talking about you," Cas cuts in, quirking an eyebrow in a way that's achingly human. Dean thinks he learned it from Sam. "This isn't necessary. I'm not angry with you. I forgave you before it happened."

"What? You --"

"I knew the Mark had you under its sway," Cas says, touching Dean's hand. "I knew you would likely be --" his mouth curves softly " -- unreasonable. I assumed our conversation would end the way it did."

Dean's eyes are stinging again, from more than just exhaustion. He tips his head back a little and tries to breathe through the heat crowding up under his jaw. "Then why? Why did you come after me?"

"Because I had to try." Gently, Cas laces their fingers together. "Watching you descend -- I could hardly stand it. Losing you completely would've killed me."

"Cas," Dean whispers. Nothing else comes out. 

"Dean, please. Let me heal you."

"Yeah," Dean says shakily. His chest is aching, like his heart is hammering against a scar. "Yeah, okay."

Cas is still holding Dean's hand. Using the other one, he reaches over and brushes his fingers along Dean's hairline. Dean braces himself for the familiar, chilly sweep of grace, but it doesn't come. Instead, Cas slides his hand down and cups Dean's jaw. His palm his huge and warm, and Dean leans into it in spite of himself, turning until his mouth is almost brushing Cas' wrist. He smells like the bunker, tired leather and old books. He rubs his thumb over Dean's cheek, then leans down and presses his mouth to Dean's forehead.

He kisses Dean once, then twice. Each time, a trickle of grace flows out; Dean's headache dulls, then ebbs away like the tide.

Dean clears his throat. This isn't. They've never. He can't -- Christ. " _Cas._ "

"Shhh," Cas says, kissing Dean's temple. The tightness under his skin eases as blood moves away from the bruise there. "This might take some time. You're very hurt."

He kisses the corner of Dean's eye, lingering until another bruise melts away, then slides his mouth along the curve of Dean's cheek, mending the shallow cut that stretches down toward Dean's jaw. He kisses the side of Dean's nose, and Dean shivers as the bump there shrinks down and disappears. Gasping, he clutches at Cas' arm. Cas drags a kiss down the line of Dean's jaw, slow and grace-cool and a little bit wet. It's too much, too everything. Dean's blood rushes in his ears.

"How do you feel?" Cas asks, nosing at the spot he just healed.

"Better." Dean's fingers twist in Cas' sleeve. "I -- better."

Humming under his breath, Cas shifts until Dean is lying underneath him, pressing Dean back into the pillows and pushing his hand into Dean's hair. He tugs gently, and Dean chokes back a moan. He's so emotionally drained that he's only half hard, but Cas' dick is digging into his hip, and -- fuck. Dean wants this. Jesus Christ, he wants it. He's always wanted it, even if he'll never, ever deserve it. He pulls Cas closer, sliding his foot down Cas' leg. Cas hides a kiss below Dean's ear, then mouths at Dean's shoulder, where he's sore from crashing into a shelf and a chain-link fence and the warehouse's concrete floor.

The pain in Dean's shoulder dims and dies out. Cas tugs Dean's hair again, tipping Dean's head back, then kisses the side of Dean's neck and space under Dean's chin and the hollow of Dean's throat. He lingers there, all stubble and heat. His mouth is open, and the hot fan of his breath sparks at something deep in Dean's gut. 

"You -- um." Dean tucks his hand under Cas' shirt, holding it at the small of Cas' back. "You didn't get me there. You know, when you -- you, uh."

"I was just checking," Cas says, the words fluttering against Dean's skin. "I don't really remember what I did."

He kisses Dean's throat again, then moves up to Dean's mouth. He kisses the split in Dean's lip, soft. The bright tendril of grace that follows makes Dean's toes curl. As soon as Dean's lip heals, Cas sucks it into his mouth. Moaning again, Dean works his hand into Cas' hair and kisses Cas the way he's always wanted, slow and lush and deep. He's flooded with another pulse of grace, this one longer and stronger. It drains the tension throbbing in his back and knotted through his shoulders and neck. It also eases the pain in his knees, a near-constant ache that has less to do with their fight and more to do with the fact that he's an old man in hunter years.

They kiss for a long time, everything slow and easy and wet. Cas presses in close, holding Dean's face between hands. Dean nudges his tongue into Cas' mouth, and he lets himself touch all the things he's wanted to touch, running his hands up the long line of Cas' back and across the broad sweep to Cas' shoulders, palming the heavy curves of Cas' thighs, brushing his fingers into the perfect, sweaty hollow of Cas' throat. Cas leans into every caress, and he makes quiet, beautiful noises right into Dean's mouth. Every so often, Dean flushes hot/cold, and another knot in his back loosens. Another bruise or cut or scrape soothes away.

When Cas finally pulls back, he's dark-eyed and breathless and a fever-bright blush is burning down his cheeks and jaw and throat, tucking itself beneath the crooked collar of his shirt. With a red, wet mouth, he asks, "Can you sleep?"

Dean smiles a little. "Yeah, I think so."

"I can help."

"No." Dean shakes his head, his hair scratching against his pillow. Getting graced to sleep is like getting hit by a truck; he just drops off like a brick and he always wakes up confused and feeling like he landed badly in his own skin. "I'll just -- can you stay?"

"Of course," Cas says.

He slides off the bed long enough to shrug out of his shirt and slacks. His hair is a wreck, and a pinkish hickey is blooming on his collarbone. The bed whines a little as he climbs back in. He rolls onto his side, and he prods and nudges at Dean's shoulder at hip until he has Dean spooned back against him. 

Dean falls asleep slowly, and with Cas' hand hidden under his t-shirt and Cas breathing into the back of his neck. 

 

+

 

Dean wakes up to an arm around his waist and a solid weight against his back. Dean blinks at his nightstand for a few minutes and reminds himself that he isn't dreaming this shit. Cas' legs are really tangled with his, and Cas' loafers are really waiting beside the bed, just edging into Dean's line of sight. According to the clock, it's a little before ten. That's a late start for him, and more sleep in one stretch than he's had in years, but he just closes his eyes and leans back into Cas' body. He just lets himself enjoy it -- the warmth of Cas' chest, the way Cas' thumb is slowly brushing his forearm, the way Cas' breath is stirring the short hair behind his ear.

The clock ticks on the nightstand. The plumbing rattles behind the walls; Sam is probably taking a shower. Softly, Cas' lips skim the back of Dean's neck. He sweeps his thumb along Dean's forearm, again and again. Dean realizes he's touching the spot that used to have the Mark.

Heat blooms in Dean's chest. Rolling over, he presses his morning wood into Cas' hip and mouths at the bolt of Cas' jaw. 

"Good morning," Cas says quietly. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yeah," Dean replies, kissing the corner of his mouth. "Better than I have in a long time. I should sleep like this more often. You know, in here. With -- uh. With you."

"Yes," Cas agrees. He rolls onto his back and pulls Dean on top of him. "You should."

They take their time with it. Cas had spoiled Dean last night, so Dean tries to return the favor, leaning in close and pinning him back against the pillows. He explores every inch of Cas' mouth, sucking on Cas' tongue and nipping the well of Cas' lip with his teeth. He drags a long kiss down the line of Cas' jaw, slow and open and wet, and he noses at Cas' chin until Cas tips his head back and gives Dean his throat. He kisses a mark there, just low enough that Cas' collar will hide it, and Cas arches into it, gasping out noises that make his skin flutter and shift under Dean's mouth.

Slowly, he learns that Cas likes having his nipples teased with the tip of Dean's tongue, than he likes having his hair pulled but likes pulling Dean's more, that he'll scratch his nails down Dean's sides if Dean kisses the shells of his ears, and that his dick fits perfectly into the palm of Dean's hand. It's gorgeous, red and flushed and curving, and when Dean first touches it, Cas hisses out Dean's name and fucks up into Dean's fist. Dean can't stop staring at him -- at the sweep of his shoulders, at the strong span of his chest, at the faint hint of light behind his eyes. It makes him shiver. He always knew Cas would ruin him for anyone else; he just never thought about it too much because he never expected it to happen.

He rubs himself against Cas' hip as he strokes Cas' dick, enjoying the slow burn of arousal building in his gut. Cas curves one hand over Dean's ass, holding it there like he wants to track the steady roll of Dean's hips. He slides the other one down Dean's arm, his fingers brushing Dean's wrist before curling against Dean's palm. He comes like that, holding Dean's hand, his mouth falling open and his hair a dark, messy shadow against the pillows. The light on the nighstand flickers. The clock stutters a little. 

"Dean," he says, breathless. "You -- are you --"

"Yeah." Dean grinds against him, shuddering. "I'm good. I'm close."

"No, I want to see," Cas says, tugging at Dean's boxer-briefs. "Let me see."

Moaning, Dean shoves his boxer-briefs out of the way. Cas touches him before he can touch himself; he runs his fingers up the length of Dean's dick once, then twice, then swipes his hand through the come on his chest and strokes Dean like that. It's warm and slick-wet and perfect, and Dean moans again, the sound curling around Cas' name. He should be embarrassed by how much noise he's making, by how loud he's being. When Cas tightens his hand and teases the head of Dean's dick with his thumb, the tension at the base of Dean's spine finally pulls taut and snaps. He comes with his hand in Cas' hair and his mouth against Cas' cheek. 

Cas cleans them up with a wave of his hand. After, he tugs Dean closer against him, sliding his hand up Dean's back and holding it in the stretch between Dean's shoulderblades. They stay like that for a while, just trading kisses and soft touches. Dean is drifting off to sleep again when he hears footsteps in the hallway.

Sam walks past his room once, then twice, then hesitates outside the door. It's a little after eleven now. Dean never sleeps this late; he's probably trying to decide if he should knock. After a moment, he leaves. Sighing, Dean makes himself sit up.

"C'mon," he says, touching Cas' side. "Time to get back to work."

Cas runs his hand up Dean's arm. "I located my car last night. Metatron abandoned it in Minooka."

Dean sighs again, grumbling, "Christ," under his breath. Illinois is a ten- or eleven-hour drive; they're going to lose the whole day, even if they hit the road by noon. "Are you -- you wanna ride up there with us?"

"Yes," Cas says, smiling. "Of course."


End file.
